


Anthem of the Heart

by orphan_account



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Darling Pan - Freeform, F/M, Romantic Era, Romantic Period, possible/probable dub-con, this was orphaned b/c im sick of getting comments and asks asking for updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The embodiment of a monster consumes every good thing it can, though it wears a mask, including an innocent little bird. Or, at the very least, it tries to. Tries to rip out the organ in her chest and hold it in his skeletal fingers. So he can have it all to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. She Cannot Remember How to Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a historian by any means. So. Here it goes.

When the coach, pulled by four, fearsome-looking black horses, with the reigns held by a boy a bit younger than her, drenched from the rain that had been falling not a few hours ago, pulls up in front of the cottage, that has been on the outskirts of London since the Darlings had built it there, Wendy has to swallow down the bile that rises in the back of her throat, kiss her mother, father, John, and Michael goodbye. She hauls her own luggage to the coach, and only when she’s about to put her two cases full of the things her mother had deemed necessary for her to take with her on the luggage rack behind the coachmen herself does the boy lean down, expressionless, and take them from her, like they are _nothing_.

He does not help her in, and he waits, patiently, as she opens the coach’s door and steps inside. She hears the boy apologize, insincerely – something about having a place to be at a certain time, and she also hears her parent assure him that it’s no trouble at all. But her brothers, she sees, when she looks out the window – pulls away the lace curtain – are glaring at her mother and father. They look absoloutely _furious_ , and when they see her through the window, she can her them screaming at her through the glass – that she’d better come back and that they’ll be waiting for her and that they’ll need their older sister – and she can only wave goodbye, weakly, as she hears the reigns snap, and suddenly, the coach is pulling away from the cottage. She thinks she might see tears rolling down her mother’s face, but it might be rain dripping down from the overhang of the roof. She thinks that she might see her father clenching his jaw, even if she’s getting farther and farther away from him, but it might be her imagination.

Wendy watches her family disappear as the coach turns back onto the dirt road it had traveled by, and wraps her arms around herself, swallowing down the urge to retch. The air isn’t much warmer in here, but, there’s no brittle breeze sifting through the fabric of her brown, scratchy (thick) coat, that her mother had insisted on buttoning down herself before the coach had arrived and no rain had managed to soak through her old, a bit-too-small boots – not her other shoes, the regular ones – her father had insisted that boots would keep her feet warm. So far, she still couldn’t feel her toes, and she could already feel the dampness from the mushy, mud-soaked grass seeping in to the fabric of her scratchy socks.

While her family was poor, it was for the best – _wasn’t it?_ – that she was going someplace _better_ , as her mother had put it. It was better that she was going someplace where her family did not have to feed three mouths, and worry about how they were going to put supper on the table each week. Now there were only two, and, although she’s only fifteen, she knows that it’s for the best. Isn’t it?

She’s supposed to think that it is, but she already feels the aching, queasy feeling of homesickness inside of her, spreading through her bloodstream, seeping into her marrow – and she curls into herself, onto her side, across the couch-like seat of the coach, the one that faces the same way the horses are pointed. Pulling up her legs, and angling her elbow so it’s a pillow, she tries not to think of how _mad_ her brothers had been – when her mother and father had received a letter and money in the mail four days ago, after three weeks of waiting for a reply – after three weeks of sending the letter to some _estate_ she’d never even _heard_ of before then – saying that, even if they did not keep her for more than a week, the family could still keep the money – that, if everything goes well, she can stay at the estate – be given a room and everything – and her parents had _lunged_ at the chance for them having to feed one less mouth than before.

They love her, yes, and they want what’s best, _yes_ , but _Wendy_ does not want to be here, in this coach, with the sour-looking boy driving her to some place out far, far in the country. She doesn’t _want_ to remember her manners, remember to be a governess to the children at the estate – but it is her parents’ _wishes_ that she does, so how bad it can it be?

Wendy tries her best not to think about what the next week is going to be like. She’s seen no upside to this, like her parents somehow have; she’s going to be with a bunch of rowdy, young boys, and a young man apparently owns the estate – it was left to him by his parents, according to her parents, who don’t actually know that much about him (which makes it so much _worse,_ but she can’t _say anything,_ because that wouldn’t be _good_ of her, now would it?) – and she’s not sure if she wants to _do_ this. Sure, she’s done it before – only fifteen, _yes_ – but the some of the socialites, from London, have hired her, had looked down their noses at her and her ratty clothes and hair tangled from the wind and rain – till she actually _was_ a governess for their children – till they began to (begrudgingly) applaud her for her ability to _teach their children_ , to tutor them. But she doesn’t know exactly how many boys there are at this estate. She’s not sure if – by way of the driver of the coach – they’ll even _want_ her there.

And, what was the lord of the estate even thinking – to bring a fifteen-year-old girl to a place where she might be no good? And he’d written back that if things went well after a _week_ – a week, and then she’ll probably be home with ecstatic brothers and disappointed parents. None of this is what she wanted – because she wants to be selfish, she _does_ , but she’s been raised better – raised to be selfless and kind and that’s what she _is_ – so she swallows back the bile, time and time again, as the overcast, October skies outside the coach shift from near-bright, to dark, to darker as the coach bumps along.

Wendy tries to let her mind wander, she even tries to sleep – but she can’t help but feel a bit terrified, because London and the cottage is all she’s ever known, and being somewhere without her mother and father – being without Michael and John – is going to be a whole new experience, and she’s not exactly _keen_ on finding out what it’s going to be like. No, not at all, not in the slightest – even though her mother had repeatedly told her not to fret (or retch, for the nerves inside of her could not keep _calm_ ), even though her father had assured her that she would be fine, that they would take her back with open arms if it didn’t work out the way they wanted it to.

It seems impossible, but eventually, her eyes close, and she drifts off, with her stomach clenching almost painfully in nervous knots – trying not to think about what it’s going to be like – trying to assure herself that it’s not as bad as she’s making it out to be when she’s never even seen the estate – never met the lord of the estate – and all she’s ever had to go off of is the boy driving the coach. Instead of staring out the window, knowing that she’s going to get closer and closer with each step the horses take (with the feeling of dread in her insides grow with each step as well) – her whirring head and jittery bones and the thudding of her heart in her ears allow her to, somehow, drift off, into a place where no dreams can torture her – comfort her – and none of the faces of the parents who so willingly gave her away for the sake of their brothers, who expressed their feelings towards her leaving quite openly – but she does not fall asleep thankful for that.

When the coach arrives at the estate, the sky is dark outside, and the boy banging on the door sends her bolting upright with a startled squeak escaping her lips. The door is opened, and a-caught-off-guard Wendy stares back at him, with a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. He only shakes his head, and she thinks she might see a smirk on his face in the dark as he leaves the door open for her. She rubs at her eyes as she steps out of the coach, nearly falls flat on her face as she stumbles onto solid ground, and she looks around. She can’t see much in the dark – there aren’t any lights on, from what she can tell – though the house looks huge – and just how late is it? – and by the time she sees that the driver has gotten her two cases of luggage and is carrying them down a cobblestone pathway towards huge, looming doors, he is nearly halfway there. She picks up the skirts of her dress, so she can dash towards him, so she can catch up – how un _lady_ like of her, of course – and he only turns and waits for her when she’s nearly caught up to him.

By then, they are in front of the doors, and he is _definitely_ smirking, like she’s a part of some game she doesn’t know about. He jerks his head towards the door, and mutters a careless “after you”, and so she steps forward, trying not to think about her family – about the cottage that’s been home to the Darlings for so, so long – as she pushes the huge wood doors open, trying to ignore how small they make her feel – and she doesn’t have time to try and look around, because the driver is pushing past her, heading off down a hall that looks like one she could get lost just looking down – and she opens her mouth, raises her hand, because the letter – the boy – never told her where to _go_ , and –

“Miss Darling?”

Wendy’s head jerks to the side, so she sees a boy standing a ways away from her, in the doorway to another hallway. She can’t see his features distinctly in the dim light of the parlor – but she can see the scar along his cheek, and she has to fight the urge to step away, to turn back and run out into the rain and _never see this place again_ –

“Lord Pan will you see you now.”

Wendy doesn’t say anything, can’t think of anything to say, as he turns and begins walking down the hall – and she quickly catches up to him, wondering if she should take off her shoes, because she thinks she might be tracking in dirt or grass from outside – but he doesn’t seem to care, and, from what she remembers about London society, this doesn’t feel like an ordinary estate. Then again, she’s never come to a home of a wealthy socialite in the middle of the night – so she has to scold herself about judging this place before she’s even seen it – because, really, how bad could this place be?

Wendy tries to spot details about the estate in the dark, but she can’t – and it irks her, a bit – but she says nothing, keeps her mouth shut – as she is led up a staircase and down another hall, this one a bit more narrow than the on the ground floor – and they suddenly halt in front of a closed door. The tall boy glances down at her, with a slight twist of his lips, before knocking on the door. He waits, they both do, in silence, though she still wants to _run_ from this place – she’s also forgotten her manners – she also seems to have forgotten how to _speak_ – and she wants to blame it all on her mother and father.

Finally, a voice is heard from the other side of the door, and the boy grins – opens it – nudged Wendy inside – and closes it after her.

The room she is in is lit by a roaring fire (it is _warm_ in here!), and there are bookshelves – filled with things she cannot see because of the shadows, dancing, cast on the walls by the fireplace – and she sees a desk, with feet upon it, and she suddenly remembers herself, remembers that her mother raised her not to gawk at things – so she awkwardly curtsies and lets her eyes rest upon the Lord Pan.

Wendy doesn’t know what is more shocking: the fact that he can’t be any older than eighteen, or that she’s never even _seen_ anyone quite like him before. Not in the way that he holds himself, like a young boy, who’s reckless and rebel-like and everything a lady should avoid. She can _feel_ his eyes burning into her skin, every inch of her he can see – and she thinks that she must look like a fright, with mussed hair, rumpled clothes, and she’s not exactly sure what to say in this situation – and running seems like _such a good idea right now_ –

“You must be Miss Darling,” he says, smiling at her. White teeth shine dully in the light of the fire, dancing in the fireplace behind him. He looks like he’s draped over his chair, till he swings his legs off his desk, stands up, and comes around, so he’s standing in front of her. Wendy freezes – her heart stutters – because he’s _tall_ , there’s something in his _eyes_ that make her want to turn and _run run run till no one can find her_ – but then he extends his hand to her, and she gives him hers. He brings it to his lips, gives it a chaste kiss, and drops it.

He acts like a gentlemen, maybe, but there is still something _wrong_ , even though the blush staining her cheeks red tells her otherwise – and, god, she’s only fifteen – her parents could have waited to send her off into the world, couldn’t they? – then he bows, low, and speaks.

“I am Lord Pan,” he says, bringing his body back up, smoothly, lithely – and she tries not to stare at how he moves under his clothes – “From what I understand, you’ve already been notified about your duties here?”

His tone is cordial, polite – formal – but she can still _tell_ something is off – she doesn’t _trust him_ – because when she looks at him, she sees sharp, dagger-teeth hidden by lips, and claws hidden by the blunt nails he’s keeping behind his back. Wendy nods her head, clutching at her gown nervously, wondering _just how_ this is going to go – hopefully, he’ll kick her out, at this rate, because something is _wrong_ and she needs to _leave_ –

“I’d show your around, introduce you to the boys, and go over them – your duties, that is – with you, once more,” he says, glancing to the left, and her eyes follow his – and there is a grandfather clock, staring back at them, and she nearly squeaks at the time. Oh, it is _late_ , and she should be _fast asleep_ by now – “but, for now, I think I’ll show you to your room.”

There’s no question in his words, but she nods anyway, and he beckons for her to follow him – after a moment of him just _examining her_ , with a glint in his eye, one that makes the nervous knots inside of her _twist_ , painfully – and she follows him out of the study – right? There were piles of books and boxes and knick-knacks everywhere – and down the hall. She’s not sure where they’re going, as he turns a corner, continues on – till they suddenly stop, in front of a door.

“This will be your room,” he says, “for the duration of your stay, Miss Darling. Your luggage is already inside – and, forgive me for saying so, so early in your stay, but I _do_ hope this arrangement. . . _works out_ , don’t you?”

His pleasant tone, his pleasing lilt, changes, suddenly, with the last bit of words that flow from his mouth, like a stream running over rocks as fast as it does in the springtime, and she swallows, hard, as he bows, murmurs “good night”, and leaves her standing, with an open mouth, staring after him. She’s wondering if he’s doing this to scare her off – to see how long she’ll stay – and she half-considers running after him as he disappears from her line of sight to ask him if this is just some sort of joke to him. She hasn’t even met the boy yet, in daylight, but she can already tell that this place – it’s not going to be like the others. No, it’s not, and he knows that she knows it – he has to, right? – with the twist of his lips that he hides in the shadows of the hall – and all she can hope for is the week to already be over with, so she can go home. It will be easy, she thinks – he doesn’t seem like the type to just hire some random _governess_ and then keep them around for long.

Oh, but  someone should have told her that she has no _idea_ of just how _wrong_ she is about that.


	2. For the Life of Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be three chapters. It cannot be written in three chapters. (ohmyfuckinggodwhatdidIdo) Warning: the style in which this was written. It um, changed? This is what happens when something is left alone for over three months. I am so sorry. I just. I need to sleep. And then sleep some more.

In his letter to her parents, he’d told them that if everything went well the first week, he would keep her for as long as they would allow her. It makes them think that this is their plan, _their_ choice. Wendy realizes this on her second day. Because after the first day, after dealing with wild boys who pushed her, who forced her into games with them, outside, in the mud and grass, whether it was tag or tackle, it didn’t _matter_.She saw, as soon as the sun had risen on the second day, that this was actually _his_ plan.

 

Wendy tries to her best to be a governess to them, she tries, she really does, and so far, they’ve listened to at least _half_ the things she’s said to them, but only half. The other half falls on deaf ears, it gets swallowed up by how _wild_ they are. Yes. _Wild_. It’s the right word for it, because Wendy’s never really seen boys like these before.

 

She thinks that, perhaps, this might get her home – that, maybe, she’s not supposed to run wild, maybe it’s the fact that she’s letting them run wild (there’s nothing she can _do_ though) - that she might be able to leave, because it might appear that she is not doing her job, that it might appear that she does not live up to the Lord Pan’s expectations, he might send her home. And she hopes with all her might that he will, because this place, this _Neverland_ , if she’s heard the boys correctly, is her own _hel_ /.

 

Lord Pan doesn’t speak to her for nearly three days. She doesn’t know where he is, if he comes or goes. She doesn’t know anything about him, really, except that he’s pretty much adopted all the boys. Whose names Wendy already remembers, because it is in her nature to.She doesn’t grow fond of them, of the boys she’s supposed to be looking after. And she doesn’t get used to them, to the chaos, of the messes she finds herself cleaning, of the sobs she tries to hold back because this is all _so unfair_ , and yet, it would be unfair of _her_ , to her family, if she came _back_ (and it was her doing). So she continues to “govern” the boys, she tries to play with them, because whatever had been _wrong_ in Pan’s actions - in his movements, in his words, in his eyes - was probably just lurking around the corner, waiting for her to give up.

 

And on the morning before the day Lord Pan would tell her if she were to leave, or if he would house her till a) he would kick her out or b) he allowed her to leave (he hadn’t said it quite like that but it had been so, so very obvious that that was what Felix had meant when he had relayed the message to her), she did.  


Wendy gives up. She’s one day away – one day away till her fate is decided – and she gives up. Without a sound. She doesn’t sob, she doesn’t beg to be taken home, like she’s been wanting to since she woke up in her room for the first time. (She’d nearly shrieked. The bed wasn’t hers. The clothes that had been laid out for her, white and black and gray, made of fine material, weren’t hers. Nothing was hers. This wasn’t home. But she’d retched. Run out and retched, in the gray early morning light, because this place is _hell_. **Neverland** is hell.)  


Wendy Darling simply stays in bed. Tucked into herself, on her side, curled under the soft sheets. Something she hasn’t done in the mornings since, well – forever.

 

She’s only been getting up at the crack of dawn since she was a little girl, it’s not a _habit_ , she wouldn’t say that, never that, but she’s been forcing the sleepiness out of her eyes since she could walk and use her mouth to speak. She’s been forcing herself to be more awake than her body’s ever been before her parents, before her brothers, rise.

 

(because it’s _her_ responsibility. For being the eldest child, the most _able_ child.)  


The boys, they’ve become accustomed to her being up nearly before them. They’re early risers, most of them, save for a few exceptions who can’t bring themselves to drag their bodies out of their beds before eight in the morning has arrived. So when she doesn’t meet them outside, either with a sour look on her face, or a tight smile, they wonder if she’s gotten herself homesick. Or, you know, just sick – because they might or might not have tried to force dirt down her throat when she’d refused to play a game with them the day before (and somewhat succeeded and Pan had glared at them for that _but there is no way that they’re sorry_ ).

 

They heard, from Felix, that girls get sick sometimes. People get sick. But in Neverland, no one really gets sick. On the grounds, all is well and fun and they are _wild_. But, still, it doesn’t stop them from looking around for her, as they stand outside. Never before has she been outside _after_ them. It’s not how things work. (They’ve already decided.)

 

When they do not see her, they go to Felix – Felix, and not Lord Pan – because, well, it’s _Lord Pan_.

 

They wake him from his slumber, with frowns on their faces with mild curiosity glimmering in their eyes. When they tell Felix that she hasn’t been seen, Felix gets up. Gets dressed. His mouth his pressed into a thin line, but he doesn’t look unhappy – doesn’t look tired – just looks like he’s thinking real hard about anything, really.  


Felix goes and knocks on the door of her room, because if the Lord Pan were to hear about this . . . Well, he doesn’t exactly want to see it – to see _it_ happen again. He’d really, _really_ rather not.

 

Morning light filters in as he raises his hand (again). It’s pale and gray, and the air inside the building is cold and fresh; he thinks someone might or might not have left a window open. It’s fine, though – it’s not like the outdoors has bothered him anyway. (He’s still like the boys, despite being older – despite being completely and wholly trusted by the Pan himself.)

 

When he knocks, _again_ , he gets no response. He finds that he isn’t really surprised. Maybe Miss Darling only slept in late, or perhaps she was just . . . What was it that girls did, when they woke up? _Primp,_ or some such? He can hardly remember; Peter took him in at such a young age, he can hardly remember what his older sisters and mother used to do once they’d woken themselves (and him in the process) in the early morning light.

 

But he thinks he might remember enough to know that she probably just overslept – or something. He isn’t here to guess, though.  


When there is no reply, he calls out her name – loud and clear in the morning’s cool air. The small group of boys behind him (some have departed, since their morning entertainment hasn’t left her room) stay silent, exchanging glances – exchanging _knowing_ glances. He puts his hand on the knob, and calls out again, and there is no reply again. His brow furrows, and he wonders if he should tell Pan. Or check on her himself. Or, perhaps, he should —

 

“ _Go away_.”  


Her voice sounds _hoarse_ , and it makes him pause. It also sounds muffled. Like she hasn’t gotten out of bed yet. Or even woken herself up.It’s only _mildly_ concerning, though. After he pretends to think for a moment, he decides that it’s best if  he lets the boys go into the room.  


Some moments later, he pretends he can’t hear the girl’s enraged screaming from beyond the doorframe as she is dragged from her room, still clad in her white night gown, tangled hair, sleep-crusted eyes, and bare feet. He pretends not to hear her threats as she is dragged down the hall, presumably to wherever Pan is. Because the Pan ought to know about this. Because this is not _normal_ (and the boys were just a bit concerned, too, he could _see_ it, because the boys are beginning to like her here – and, well, Pan really ought to know, because they don’t tell him he will find out and – _well_ ).

 

Felix doesn’t follow the boys. He takes a moment, to think – just to think – to examine the motes of dust that are visible in the light that the light streaming from Wendy Darling’s room provides, before he goes off in the opposite end of the direction. He has things he has to do, anyway.  


The boys drag her to the library, and shut the heavy doors behind her, leaving her alone with the musty scent of books. She doesn’t have time to run her fingers down the leather spines like she wants to – she doesn’t get to run her fingers along the polished, smooth, dark wood of the towering bookshelves – to climb the wheeled-ladder and read each title of every single book, no matter the height she has to go – even though she wants to – even though she can feel something deep in her chest pull weakly at her will, pulls and tugs because there are just _so many_ books she could read here.

 

She doesn’t recall ever knowing about this part of the estate (probably because she mentioned she like to read and then Felix had probably taken that as “I will ignore my duties in favor of literature”) – the part with the library, and she thinks that she could get lost in here – so easily – and she might not even complain, not even a little bit – even though anger is bubbling forth from her constricted chest – even though sleep’s fingers claw at the inside of her eyelids. Giving up – that was the plan – because she is _done_ – all she wants to do is _sleep_.

 

She knows that Lord Pan is here – but she doesn’t particularly want to look for him. She doesn’t want to – doesn’t care to, because the Lord Pan – he unnerves her, and it’s been a blessing, up until this point, that she hasn’t had to see him often. Because, well, he makes something in her gut twist – sometimes, not unpleasantly, but something’s been off since she got here – and she’s not exactly sure she wants to investigate. Especially when Felix has had her wrenched out of bed and dragged _here_.

 

“Miss Darling.”

 

The voice cuts through what _could_ have been peaceful silence, like a knife would cut through melting butter, and Wendy spins around. She tries to forget the fact that she is in her _nightgown_ , of all things, and only that, she tries to ignore the fact that she wants to step forward and shove the Lord Pan back into the book shelves, and then run for her life.

 

“I do hope everything here is to your liking.” His tone – it’s the same as it was when they first met, before an undertone had become apparent to her – until his lilt had changed and she’d felt the need to gape openly at him for hours. It’s – it’s rather infuriating, actually. “I trust, since my boys brought you here, that you worried them.” Them? The boys? Worried. _Really_. Irritation bubbles up, from deep within her stomach. It shouldn’t matter that he’s making her stomach twist into nervous knots right now, with the way he’s looking at her – with that _glint_ in his eyes, like – like something’s afoot, and there’s nothing she can do about it.

 

Wendy, for a moment, is caught between snapping at him, and keeping her mouth shut. Because, if she’s honest with this young boy, if she tells him exactly how she feels, about the boys (about _him_ , that he makes her want to _run_ ), her family – she’d be sent home, to her mother and father – and they’d be so disappointed. It’s been rolling around in her head, since she arrived at the estate. If she were to be sent home, well, she doesn’t think she could handle being around her mother. Perhaps, her father wouldn’t speak to her, for a while. Her brothers, they’d be ecstatic, they wouldn’t have a care in the world when it concerned how her mother and father felt about her. They loved her – they loved her with all of their own hearts, but this – this is for them too, she thinks, as the corner of Pan’s mouth turns upwards – just a bit – as if he can hear her thoughts, loud and clear – as if he can hear her inner conflict.

 

It’s tempting, despite this – despite the uneasy curling within her gut. It’s tempting to tell him – even though there’s a part of her, that wants to remain meek, and quiet. It would be best for her family – she knows it would be – if she trudged on through this hell. If she allowed dirt to be shoved down her throat, if she accepted the scrapes on her knees from how many times she’s been tripped and shoved to the ground in a violent game of chase-and-catch. The bruises on the inside that they’re causing – the homesickness that blooms in the dead of night – the meager part of her wants to cover it up, spit out – so she can be selfless (so she can _pretend_ to be).

 

Perhaps, if he keeps her, she can spit out the words that have been sticking to the back of her teeth, that have left a bad, lingering taste in her mouth – and that, that, right now, seems like it can be the only thing she can look forward to, if he decides if she stays or not.

 

And, is it so wrong of her, to hope that he sends her away?

 

“I do hope that your time here has been, ah, enlightening.” It’s been more than a moment, she realizes; she’s most likely been staring off, looking furious. Her cheeks color, and she presses her lips together into a flat, tight line – and studies the Lord Pan.

 

He doesn’t seem angry. He doesn’t seem enraged at the fact that she did not attend to her duties this morning – but she doesn’t, for a moment, think or hope that he doesn’t know that she’s given up – that she’s trying to. But he’s making that part impossible – he really is – by his boys dragging her out of bed. She wants to give up, though, so badly – and she thinks she already has, somewhat (if he’ll even let her), because she is so sick of the violence, of the dirt, of the wilderness that runs rampant and unchecked throughout the estate, outside and inside the walls of this house – this _hell_. Of Neverland.

 

But – but the way his words flow past his lips, so easily, right into her ears – Wendy knows something is coming. She knows it – know sit all too well.

 

He takes a step forward, and, she doesn’t mean to, she doesn’t mean to at all, but she does step back – though, she does pride herself in keeping her spine rigid, with her chin lifted. It’s only been some days since she came here, but her nerves are already frayed. She is exhausted, she his homesick, and she wants to run away from this place, as fast as she possibly can.

 

“I’d like you to join me for tea, later, Miss Darling.”

 

Wait – what? Tea? _Tea_?

“I’ll be expecting you at half-past one.”

 

The way he smiles at her, actually _smiles_ at her – dropping any hint of formality, in favor of something she’s never seen before – something she’d thought she’d never see, on a boy no older than eighteen, no less – it makes her want to allow a shudder to creep down her spine. And when he walks by her, without giving her a chance to respond, to voice her complaints – her _outrage_ – his hand brushes her hipbone.

 

It’s enough for a shiver to travel through her body, to make her feel like he’s jostled her bones in their sockets, like he’s scrambled something up inside of her. She turns, and watches him leave. She doesn’t – she doesn’t _understand_ what he wants, what this is going to be about. Well, actually, she’s hoping she knows. Being sacked wouldn’t be such a bad thing, she thinks – it really wouldn’t.

 

Knowing her luck, though, she thinks it’s something worse, so much worse. By now, she should know – she should know when to go straight to her room, pack her things, and run out the door, barefoot if she has to, because this place is not a place for a girl like her. It is a wild place, where vines should be curling around the support beams within the house, where grass should be poking up between the cracks in the stone-covered ground outside the front step. Neverland is a place that ought to be in ruins, because there is no order here – there’s only a group of orphan boys and their leader, their Lord Pan.

 

Wendy doesn’t run, like she should, she doesn’t go after him, and demand an explanation. She doesn’t run away, she doesn’t remove herself from the vicinity – she doesn’t escape, she doesn’t do anything she knows she should do. Instead, she leaves the library, as fast as she can, and tries to head straight for her room. But the boys – they pounce on her, like a cat that was waiting for the mouse to appear, and this time, she does not stop herself from protesting – loudly, shrilly – as she is dragged harshly by fingers around her wrist with blunt nails that dig cruelly into her skin by a small, black-haired boy with blades of grass in his hair and streaks of dirt on his cheeks.

 

Other boys follow, they laugh – they whoop and holler, and when she twists her head, just once, she catches a glimpse of Lord Pan, and Felix by his side. And she doesn’t miss the way his eyes slide to her, the way his lips pull up as she is yanked around a corner, towards the front entrance ( _still in her nightgown_ ). Wendy wonders, briefly, if she can escape before _tea time_ with Pan – but her hopeful wonderings are cut short when she’s shoved into another game of chase.

 

(This place is _hell_.)


End file.
